


Prayin' Won't Do You No Good

by loumieredarling



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:20:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loumieredarling/pseuds/loumieredarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Solomon Institute for Troubled Teens, full of lowlife, good for nothing boys from various towns, various states, but all there for the same kind of reason, like waste washed up on the banks of a river mouth, discarded and useless. The truth is a weapon, lying is a sin, and everything catches up with you in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 “So, Dean, it's nice to actually have you in my office for once. Does this mean I should expect to give up the extra half hour coffee break you gave me last year by failing to attend any of our sessions?”

 “No ma'am, I don't think that'll be a problem. I just thought if I turned up today it would get you off my back for the next few weeks at least,” replied the boy sat across the desk from the counsellor.

 She huffed, the corners of her mouth turning upwards involuntarily, folding her hands on the desk. “How was your summer, Dean?”

 Dean barked a derisive laugh, lounging back in his seat, fingers picking at a loose thread on the arm of the chair. “Well, it wasn't exactly summer, was it? I was here the whole time.”

 “Through your own choice, though.” The end of her sentence rose slightly, statement almost becoming a question, her head cocked slightly on one side as she appraised the teenager.

 “Yeah, well, I hardly had many options, did I? And no way in hell was I going for the other one.”

 The counsellor nodded. “Your other option; why don't we talk about that?”

 “No.” Dean said firmly, fixing her with a glare. Understanding that that topic was still a big no-go, the counsellor sighed and changed the subject. “So, your new dorm-mate arrives today - excited?”

 “Thrilled,” Dean replied flatly.

 “And how do you feel about not rooming with Sam anymore?”

 “I think it's stupid.”

 “Why?”

 “He's my brother, why do we have to be split up?”

 “We think it would help if you two spent slightly less time together. But you don't have a problem with his new roommate?”

 “Victor? Nah, he's an okay guy.”

 “But you're a better guy?”

 "No.” The answer came quickly, automatically. The counsellor scribbled something down.

 “Okay,” she said, setting her pen back down on the table and looking at Dean, “Your new roommate's name is Castiel. He'll be arriving at three.” She noted the face Dean pulled at the boy's name, but he said nothing, only nodded. “Okay Dean, I'm going to end this session here. I won't assume that you'll be here next week, but I'll put the idea out there anyway - a girl can dream.”

 “See you around, Miss Mills.”

 

* * *

This Castiel kid stared too much. He stood in the doorway to Dean's room, his suitcase set down at his feet, tan coat thrown over the top, looking as though he and his Sunday best had been fed through a blender. He had dark shadows beneath his eyes, and Dean was sure Sam would want to investigate how exactly the boy's hair seemed to defy gravity, sticking up from his head at all angles, as though he'd just gotten out of bed. Judging by the similarly rumpled state of his suit, maybe he had. His eyebrows were pulled together in an expression somewhere between a scowl and a concentrated glare as he studied Dean, who was lounging back on his bed, flipping a coin between his fingers.

 Sensing the kid wasn't going to do or say anything anytime soon, Dean took the wheel, “Castiel, right?”

 "Yes,” the boy responded, nodding his head almost imperceptibly. He sounded like he'd smoked twenty a day for forty years, not like a scruffy, scrawny seventeen year old. Then again, Dean had stopped being surprised when his expectations weren't met at this place.

 “Well, I'm Dean, and welcome to the Solomon Institute for Troubled Teens, where we use positive peer pressure to help young adults reach their full potential!” He said brightly, mimicking the school's inappropriately optimistic motto with an overly enthusiastic grin. Castiel merely nodded again, scowl still firmly in place. He picked up his case and moved into the room, throwing it down onto the spare bed and tugging off his tie as though it had caused him a personal offence.

 “So why're you here then? Break into daddy's liquor cabinet?” Dean asked, tossing the coin onto his bedside table and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up to watch as Castiel moved mechanically around the room, unpacking his meagre belongings.

 “Drugs,” he stated plainly, shrugging off his suit jacket and hanging it up in their shared wardrobe; a rather futile act, Dean thought, considering its already crumpled state. “You?”

 Dean huffed a laugh, leaning forward and folding his hands on his knees. “I'm here because my brother's here. That's all you need to know.”

 Castiel nodded and continued moving about the room. No questions, good. Maybe Dean could manage with this guy after all.

 Silence fell again, only slightly tinted by awkwardness. Dean lay back down the bed and watched as Castiel carried himself with a surety that Dean didn't usually associate with the druggies that got sent here, his shoulders set and his movements unhurried and steady.

 It didn't take long, and when his case was stowed at the bottom of the wardrobe, he stood at the window between their two beds, hands deep in his pockets, shirt untucked and top buttons undone.

 “So,” he began, gaze fixed on something on the horizon, “you have a brother here?”

 “Yup,” Dean said shortly.

 “What's his name?”

 “Sam.”

 “How old is he?”

 “Fifteen.”

 There was a pause.

 “What about you? Got any family?” he enquired eventually.

 Castiel nodded stiffly. “Yes, but I can hardly say they consider _me_ family.” He didn't say it, but Dean could hear the 'anymore' at the end of his sentence.

 “Ah.”

 Silence fell again. Dean reached under his bed and pulled out a vintage car magazine, thinking it was too early in his acquaintance with Castiel for skin mags.

 “How long have you been here?” Castiel asked, eyes still transfixed on the world beyond their dormitory window.

 “About a year. But as soon as I'm eighteen I'm taking Sammy and getting as far away from here as possible.”

 “Sam too? How?” He turned to Dean, head cocked on one side.

 “Too many questions, Castiel.”

 Somewhere down the corridor a bell rang. Castiel looked at Dean curiously.

 “Dinner, then group therapy,” Dean sighed, tossing his magazine to the floor and getting up. “Come on, we'll find Sam and Victor before we show you the rest of Solomon and watch as your last hopes crumble and burn.” Castiel said nothing as he followed Dean out the door.

 

* * *

Sam had the kind of long, scrawny limbs that indicated he still had a lot of growing to do, and he was already only slightly shorter than Castiel, he noted. Victor was a broad guy with a penchant for sarcasm and an intelligent gleam in his eye. They found themselves a table in the corner of the large, open room, away from the borderline psychotics and the withdrawals who were busy bending their cutlery and chucking scrunched up napkins at the back of each other’s heads.

Victor seemed perfectly at ease, even surrounded by the noise and worrying displays of testosterone that verged on violence but hadn't quite reached it yet. Castiel studied his actions with interest, how he moved through the crowd with confidence, and how those in his way moved aside as if they hadn't even noticed his passing.

Most fascinating, however, was how Dean's behaviour changed around his brother.

Where his body language in the dorm had been relaxed but his demeanour defensive, here, in the in white-walled cafeteria of the Solomon Institute, his behaviour was the exact opposite. He laughed openly as he bantered back and forth with Victor but he sat almost stiffly, his body half curved towards Sam in what could only be described as a protective stance. Castiel noted the way his back straightened subtly and his shoulder shifted whenever someone walked by their table. He recognised the behaviour instantly, but Sam continued eating, seemingly unaware; whether because he was oblivious or accustomed to his brother's actions, Castiel couldn't tell.

He watched the three boys' interaction intently, not joining in himself. A few times Dean's eyes slid to him to give him a look like he was trying to figure him out, like he was unnerved by him, but Castiel ignored it. Sam threw him a sympathetic smile after Victor clapped him hard on the back in greeting, causing Castiel to finch and send him a glare before he could stop himself.

The food tasted bland and unappetising, and Castiel was sure if he hadn't smoked off half his taste buds, it wouldn't have been much better.

“Where are you from originally, Castiel?”

Castiel swallowed his mouthful and looked up into the warm eyes of Sam, who was watching him with genuine interest.

“Pontiac, Illinois. Yourself?”

Sam threw a sidelong glance at Dean, who shrugged slightly in answer to his silent question. “Lawrence, Kansas originally, but our father-” To Sam’s left, Dean stiffened almost imperceptibly, eyes dropping downwards, and Sam paused, eyes flicking to his brother. Interesting. “Our father was a military engineer. We moved around a lot. And Victor’s from Wisconsin.” Victor nodded, not looking up from his plate as he continued to shovel his food down.

A bell rang out, cutting the conversation short. Castiel looked towards the door, where boys were moving out of the room in clumps, jostling each other to try and get out of the room first. Victor groaned, sounding strangely satisfied considering the quality of the meal, and pushed his plate away. “Show and tell time, boys. See you later, Sam.”

Sam nodded, wincing as he cracked his knee against the underside of table.

Dean snorted. “Don’t worry, Sasquatch, you’ll get used to those overgrown limbs of yours soon enough.”

Sam threw Dean a dirty look, waved briefly at Castiel and jogged to catch up with a dark haired kid who was already halfway to the door.

“Right,” Dean turned to Castiel as too headed out of the cafeteria at a more leisurely pace, “group therapy. You’ll need a few things to get you through these things fine, okay? Firstly, don’t say anything you’re not comfortable with people knowing about. In fact, better not to tell them anything at all. These sessions are meant to be about getting crap off your chest, chick flick moments and feelings. My advice? Don’t divulge. Personal information is ammunition; bare minimum, always. This’ll be an introductory session, so your name, why you’re here, etcetera. Stick to that, and make stuff up if you have to.”

“You’ll scare the kid, Dean,” Victor chuckled.

 “I just don’t want him thrown into the lions’ den unprepared. There’s no point lying to him; they’ll tear him apart.”

“I think I can handle it, Dean.” Castiel said coolly. He was not a fan of being patronised.

Victor barked a laugh, “We’ll see, kid.”

 

* * *

 

They were sat in alphabetical order in a circle. There were about forty of them in the room, both juniors and seniors, and it was obvious that none of them wanted to be there. The atmosphere was simultaneous painfully awkward and incredibly hostile, and if eye contact were made with one of the other boys, it became a battle of wills to see who would back down and look away first. Castiel briefly considered trying not to make enemies so early in the semester, then decided that it would be better to have enemies than to come across as weak, as prey. A man sat roughly opposite him, obviously a counsellor. He was wiry and looked as though he had never quite finished going through puberty, though he sported a goatee. He had an overly enthusiastic expression, which Castiel deemed to be totally out of place in the room full of scowls and glares and the desire to be anywhere but there. Victor was sat a few chairs to the right of Castiel, Dean on the other side of the circle, only a couple of spaces away from the counsellor.

After a moment, the man cleared his throat, beaming around at the assembled teenagers.

“Afternoon, boys! Hello to those of you who have just joined us this semester, and welcome back to those who have been here a little longer.” It was easy to tell the new boys from the old. The new ones either looked terrified and twitchy or as if they were overdoing the aggression. “My name is Garth,” the man continued. “So, to get us started, why don't we go around the circle and say our names, where we're from, and why we're here.” Castiel could see Dean try to suppress a groan, and couldn't help but empathise with him. The guy was like every bad cliché of a counsellor at this kind of place. 

Castiel had no interest in finding out the names and backgrounds of all the no good teenagers with violence issues, drugs habits and imbalanced testosterone levels, so quickly found something else to occupy his mind; with Dean being in plain sight, and apparently also unconcerned by the activities of the group, Castiel chose to study him, watching the slight changes in his expression as each boy introduced themselves. He remained relatively pokerfaced, picking at a loose thread on the hem of his tshirt, until one person said their name, and then his eyebrows twitched together into a scowl that was gone almost as quickly as it had arrived. By the time he noticed, however, the boy, who had a slick, drawling voice, had said his name and was telling the group that he was from Carthage, Missouri, and was here on probation from Juvie for good behaviour. Castiel got the feeling that good behaviour had nothing to do with it. The boy looked around the room, a predatory smile splitting his face in two. Castiel allowed his eyes to drop to the floor before the cold gaze reached him, and didn't look up again until Victor introduced himself as “Victor Henricksen, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Kicked out of school.” Short, to the point, nothing personal; sticking to the rules, then.

The room went quiet when the time to speak fell on Castiel. He looked around warily. “Castiel Novak. Pontiac, Illinois. Drug use.”

Garth beamed at him, “Great to have you here, Castiel! It's a shame to hear about the drugs, but we'll have you cleaned up and an upstanding member of society again in no time, you'll see!”

“I look forward to it,” he responded dryly. He caught Dean covering a chuckle with a cough out of the corner of his eye. At least someone was enjoying this.

The focus moved away from him, and the introductions continued. Meaningless names of boys from various towns, various states, but all here for the same kind of reason, like waste washed up on the banks of a river mouth, discarded and useless.

“Dean Winchester. Lawrence, Kansas.”

Castiel looked up, engaged again.

“And why are you here, Dean?”

“Because my-”

“Because his brother's here; we all know his story. But it's not quite true, is it, Dean-o?” it was the boy from earlier, the one on Juvie probation. Dean's head jerked up, looking straight at him, something like a threat flashing in his eyes.

“Oh do you, Bechtel? Tell me, why am I here then?”

“I heard you killed someone.” Another voice came from across the room.

“Of course I did, Zeddmore,” Dean bit back, turning to the short, nervous looking boy with a bad haircut, “I murdered someone in cold blood, but one look at this adorable face and they merely let me off with a stay at Behavioural Mod.” The kid named Zeddmore blushed fuchsia and looked down at his feet. “You chuckleheads got any more dumbass theories or are we done for the day?” No one said anything. “Good, well, I think that's enough of this bullshit for tonight.” Dean got up and moved towards the door.

“Dean, I really think you should stay here-” Garth was cut short as the door banged shut in Dean's wake.

 

* * *

 

Sam had been waiting outside the room when Castiel and Victor filed out. “Where's Dean?”

“Bailed again,” Victor replied, heading in the direction of the dormitories; Castiel and Sam followed.

“Again? He does it a lot, then?” Castiel asked.

“Well he attends the group meetings more regularly. They're hard to skive off, what with everyone being there. Individual sessions, however,” behind them, Castiel heard Sam chuckle, “are very easy to miss. I don't think he saw Miss Mills more than once in the whole of his Junior year here.” He changed the subject, “So, who'd you have for your meet today, Sam?”

“Chuck.”

Victor laughed, “Ah, Mr. Shurley. I wonder if the school's picked up on the irony of having a guy with a drink problem as a counsellor.”

“I doubt it. Garth's not much better though, in terms of counselling expertise.”

“Oh I don't know, he grows on you,” Victor responded as they turned off the top of the stairs onto their dormitories' corridor. Castiel thought the idea of Garth growing on him to be unlikely.

 

* * *

 

Castiel found Dean once more lounged back on his bed, flipping through a car magazine, but not looking like he was taking in any of it. He kicked his shoes off and sat down on the opposite bed, contemplating his roommate. After a moment, Dean looked up.

“Problem? Or do you just stare at people for kicks?”

“Both.”

Dean looked up in alarm, then caught the expression on Castiel's face and smiled wryly. He looked away again, back down at his magazine, and Castiel leant back against the wall, sighing. The silence was surprisingly comfortable, the clock above their dormitory door ticking softly, the setting sun bathing their room in fire. Castiel would have admired it, but he'd long ago given up on marvelling at the wonders of the world. There was too much shit in it to make the little things worthwhile.

"Dean?"

"Hmm?"

The silence shattered around them like glass, and Castiel could almost feel the warm safety of the quiet stillness escaping, replaced by the chilly tension of standing on the knife's edge of what he was allowed to ask his new roommate, and what he wasn't. He was burning with questions, like why was Victor here, why was Sam here, and most importantly, why was Dean really here, but he could tell already that all of those would be far overstepping the mark. He settled for the easiest one.

"Who was the guy in group? Bechtel?"

Dean set the magazine down and ran a hand over his face, suddenly looking fifteen years older than he was. "Alistair Bechtel. Trust me; you do not want to be getting messed up with him. You heard he's out on probation, right?" Castiel nodded. "Yeah, well the reason he was in there in the first place was for some kind of knife crime. Supposedly he cut up a guy pretty bad. This is common knowledge, too. The guy's proud of his achievements, practically shouts them to the high heavens. So yeah, he cut this guy up - didn't kill 'im, though. It was like some creepy science experiment. Bechtel cut the guy in places where it would hurt like fuck, but wouldn't kill him.”

"Why?"

"God knows. Supposedly, Bechtel was linked up in some kind of drug dealing gig. Some guy got himself addicted, in debt, He was handed to Alistair to be sorted out. How in hell he got out of Juvie on probation I have no clue. The guy's a psycho. Really knows how to screw with your head, too, on top of being worryingly good at human biology."

"How long was he in Juvie for?"

"Sentenced when he was fourteen. Got two and a half years before coming here."

Castiel was shocked. Bechtel was fourteen, maybe even younger when he did that, and still managed to get probation after only two and a half years. That was fucked up.

"Do you know him then? Bechtel?" Dean's expression went blank, and he stared at the door flatly.

"No, not really. Got in a bit of a scrape with him last year, but most people do at some point." Dean stopped talking and Castiel understood that that was the last Dean was saying on the topic. He got up, stretching, feeling the vertebrae down his spine pop and crack as he reached his arms behind him. He pulled his shirt off over his head and threw it down onto the bed, reaching for the old t-shirt and pyjama bottoms under his pillow.

"Nice tats."

Castiel turned around to see Dean looking at him with interest, indicating towards his back. Cas looked over his shoulder at the black wings that spread from the join of his shoulder blades down to his elbows, as if he had forgotten they were there.

"Thanks."

"They mean anything?"

Castiel paused. “My name. It's the name of an angel. They seemed fitting."

"They are."

Castiel looked at Dean curiously. Dean shook his head slightly, "When'd you get them?"

"About a year ago."

"Drug related mistake?"

"Drug related, but not a mistake."

"Hmm."

Castiel paused, then pulled his t-shirt on, shucking his slacks too and replacing them with the worn plaid pyjama bottoms. Dean had switched his bedside lamp on as the sun sunk low beneath the horizon; he crawled into bed, facing the wall.

"Night, Cas."

Castiel didn't respond, but something flickered in his mind at the nickname. The sheet was pulled tight across his back, and as he let his mind shut down into oblivion, he imagined he could feel the inked wings bursting out of his shoulders, arching upwards and outwards, smashing through the walls of this room, this prison, and letting him soar through the night, invisible chains obliterated and heart at last cut free.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel hadn't found school a challenge even through a cloud of weed smoke, and now smoke free at Solomon, lessons were almost torturous with their levels of monotony. Their teachers went at the pace of the slowest member of the class, and boy, was the slowest member _slow_.

Castiel wasn't the only one showing signs of frustration three weeks into the semester. Sam and a friend of his, Ash, had looks of perpetual boredom plastered to their faces during study hall, having finished all their work days beforehand, while others were still being tutored on topics they struggled with.

Sam's irritation seemed to have spread to Dean, too. Most nights back in their dorm, Castiel would be sat on his bed with a book, while Dean paced back and forth and rattled on about how Sam was a smart kid, could do anything if he put his mind to it, and instead was stuck here with these “mentally deficient wannabe-dropouts who couldn't tell their rights from their lefts.”

For the most part, Castiel let him vent. ‘No questions, no problems’ was the rule they had established in the terms of their friendship, if you could call it that. They were comfortable in each other's presence, but Castiel didn't trust Dean, and Dean didn't trust Castiel – or Cas, as he now called him.

The nickname had been made official on the second day of Castiel's stay at Solomon.

It was breakfast, and Victor had asked Dean how it felt not sharing a room with his kid brother anymore.

“It's great, actually. Cas is quiet enough. Finally, after fifteen years, I am free of Sammy's god-awful snoring,” Dean joked, cramming toast into his mouth, but Castiel thought he looked a little wary.

“Cas?” Sam pounced on the slip instantly, eyeing Dean with a strange expression on his face.

“Yeah,” Dean shrugged, crumbs spraying from his mouth as he spoke around his half-chewed breakfast, “Castiel's kind of a mouthful, not to mention weird.” he looked at Castiel apologetically.

“Speaking of mouthfuls...” Sam sighed, giving Dean a disparaging look. Dean proceeded to give his brother a graphic viewing of the contents of his mouth. Sam winced and muttered something that sounded like “Neanderthal”. Victor snorted into his cup of coffee.

 

* * *

 

Cas was okay, Dean decided. Reserved, and a little odd, with his long stares and drawn out silences, mostly choosing not to speak unless directly addressed. He was blunt, with a tendency to be sarcastic and snappish when confronted by anything he deemed to be bordering stupidity and pointless activity. However, he was beginning to show a different side around Sam, something in him coming alive whenever they got into discussions about literature, history, philosophy. Sam seemed to be enjoying Castiel's company, too, having spent far too long at this school without another nerd like himself to talk to. Sometimes Dean would go for walks around the grounds at night, leaving Sam and Cas to talk in the dorm about things that were far beyond his pay grade.

The night was quiet, and still. Wisps of cloud drifted across the stars, and the trees stood silhouetted in silver from the half-risen moon sat behind them, lazily crawling its way upwards into the sky. Dean shoved his hands into his pockets, gaze flicking up to the dormitory window again, every overly anxious instinct telling him to go back, not to leave Sam by himself. Dean had spent the past few weeks with constant worry knotted in his gut, panic rearing up and threatening to choke him whenever he woke up in the middle of the night to find that Sam wasn't in there, sleeping in the next bed. He knew it was stupid; Cas wasn't going to do anything to Sam, and he trusted Victor, even though it had taken months to be able to reach that point, but he couldn't help it; after everything, he wasn't just going to let his guard down.

Which is precisely what he did.

Something caught him by the collar of coat and slammed him into the wall. His head cracked against brick and he gasped, winded, vision fading around the edges.

“Evening, Dean-o,” a voice drawled next to his ear, like dripping tar, noxious and thick. He could feel an arm pushed to the base of his throat, keeping him in place lest he be choked. Another hand kept his free arm pinned to the wall by his wrist; Dean's other arm was firmly trapped behind his back.

“Ungh,” Dean groaned, trying to clear his head, “Alistair. I don't know about you, but my mother always taught me that the greeting goes _before_ the physical assault.”

Alistair chuckled, the sound deep and more sinister than any sound a seventeen year old should have been able to make, “Dean, Dean, Dean. All bark and no bite, as per usual of course. I'm glad to see nothing's changed since our last little soirée. Did you miss me?”

“Not particularly. I had dreams of beating your skull in to keep me warm at night in your absence.”

Alistair laughed again, throwing his head back in mirth, light from the school's windows throwing eerie shadows across his face, making it look gaunt, hollowed out. The arm pressed more firmly into his throat.  “Grasshopper, how do you come up with these things? It's beautiful, truly it is, this little repartee we've got going on here.”

“I can't say I'm enjoying it quite as much as you are.”

Alistair smirked. “You've been avoiding me lately, Dean. I have to say, I'm incredibly hurt.”

“And I wonder why I've been doing that,” Dean coughed past the pressure on his throat that was beginning to choke him.

“You know, I did some research on you over the summer. What I could, at least. Didn't find much, unfortunately, though that could have been down to the fact that the research facilities at Juvenile Detention summer camp are limited at best.” Jesus, this guy talked a lot.

“Skip the speech and cut to the chase, Bechtel. You don't want me passing out on you while you're still talking out of your ass, do you?” he wheezed, praying for Alistair to let off slightly as his brain began to scream for oxygen, his head throbbing where he'd hit it, and distantly, the tips of his fingers tingling from the too tight grip around his wrist.

“As you wish, Grasshopper. So, as I was researching, I stumbled across a lovely little obit, for a man called John Winchester. Your daddy, no?” Dean glowered murderously at the taller boy. “Hmm, yes, I thought so,” Alistair continued. “So yes, John Winchester, died in a car crash three years ago, am I correct? And mommy dearest has been in the ground for years-”

If Dean had had enough oxygen left he would have said something, but as it was all he was able to do was emit a low growl, jerking uselessly against Alistair's hold on him.

“But that's funny, see, because you and little Sammy – or not so little anymore, I should say; that kid is growing fast - only came here a year ago. So who sent you to this place then, and why?” Dean absently wished he would stop with the endless rhetoricals. “What did you do, Dean?”

Alistair let the pressure of Dean's throat slightly, and he gasped, pulling as much oxygen into his lungs as possible. “Go to hell,” he rasped.

Alistair leant in, lips brushing Dean's ear slightly as he flinched away from the contact, disgusted. “Already been.”  The arm pushed down again, cutting off his air fully, and black splotches started appear over his vision. He could hear blood pounding in his ears, feel it matting his hair together at the back of his head, and prayed that he would pass out soon.

Light suddenly filled the courtyard. Dean and Alistair were still held in shadow, out of the view of the person who opened the door, silhouette framed against the light from inside. They crossed the courtyard and disappeared into another building.

Alistair let go of Dean and he fell heavily to the ground, pulling in harsh breaths as the world around him swam.

“Until next time, Dean. I'm enjoying this little guessing game of ours.”

Dean didn't watch Alistair leave, too busy trying to steady himself from the light-headedness he got from from having very little oxygen to far too much. He lay on the ground for several minutes, head cradled in his arms, until he felt ready to get up.

He leant heavily against the wall, reaching up to gingerly feel the gash at the back of his head. Blood, lots of it, but head wounds always bled a lot; it throbbed like a motherfucker, but he'd live. He pulled his hood up to cover the damage, and unsteadily made his way inside, heading for the showers.

Dean didn't let his mind wander back to the courtyard and Alistair's words as the water ran over him, getting steadily colder; he'd save that problem for the morning. He washed carefully, cleaning around the cut and hoping it wouldn't continue to bleed in the night; the last thing he needed was for Castiel to wake up to find him asleep on a blood soaked pillow.

Eventually he shut off the water, feeling slightly more together, and having thrown on his clothes once more, headed back to the dorm. Sam was gone and Cas was dead to the world, breathing deep and slow. That was one less thing to worry about then.

 

* * *

 

Castiel fell quickly into a routine of get up, breakfast, classes, lunch, classes, “evening activities”, dinner, sleep, repeat. Routines were good. They kept his mind from wandering back to Pontiac, to drugs and family and half a million fuck ups and mistakes. When Dean wasn't pissed about something, it was quiet in their room, Cas working or reading, Dean doing similarly. Once, Dean had asked Cas what music he liked.

Cas looked up from his book, Dante's _Inferno._ “I don't listen to music.”

Dean gawked at him, “You're kidding, right?”

Cas shook his head. “No. I stopped when-” he paused.

Dean looked confused for a moment, then realised that Cas wasn't going to finish his sentence. He nodded slowly. “So what did you listen to before?”

Cas lowered his eyes from Dean's, letting him know that this wasn't a conversation he was willing to continue. His roommate went quiet. After a while Dean said, “I'm into all the old classics. You know, Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, Motörhead, that kind of thing.”

Castiel honestly had very little interest in Dean's music taste, but he wasn't familiar with the works of the bands he mentioned, and Dean so rarely talked about anything personal, and even less so with such fervour, that Cas set aside his book to watch him chat animatedly about the age of classic rock and how music hasn't been quite the same since. As he spoke, his hands drummed excitedly on his knees and his sleeve pulled up slightly, revealing a purplish ring around his wrist, but then it was gone again, and Castiel wondered if it had really been what he could have sworn it looked like, or whether it was just a trick of the light.

 

* * *

 

Miss Mills watched the boy sat opposite to her with interest as he stared out of the window, a look of concentration etched onto his face, hands folded in his lap. She hadn't been able to get much out of Castiel, yet. He attended each one of their meetings, but as with many of the students she was assigned to, he was reluctant to talk about anything personal. He spoke in a soft, sure voice of his studies, how he felt the pace was going too slowly for him, how he wished there were more books around, having almost finished the few he'd brought with him. Miss Mills said she would look into providing ones more suited to his tastes, and Castiel seemed genuinely grateful.

Miss Mills had noted how Castiel's behaviour seemed to change between being inside her office and being outside in the school corridors and the cafeteria. With the boys she most often saw him with, Dean Winchester, his brother Sam and Sam's roommate Victor, he would be brash, with a dry sense of humour, but he never seemed to shake his reserved manner, and would always seem detached from the conversation to a certain degree. In their sessions he seemed to be almost entirely focused on the conversation, but he was guarded, wary, and the counsellor did her best to tread around their topics of conversation carefully, treating him like an animal not to be scared off.

Unfortunately, today, she would have to start testing the waters a bit.

“So, Castiel, how about we talk about your family?”

Castiel's eyes dropped to his hands curled in his lap and then up to her, gaze clear and slightly unnerving.

“What about them?”

“Tell me about them. What are their names, how old are they, what are their jobs, that kind of thing.”

Castiel hesitated, looking uncertain. “I have a mother and a father. They are Biblical scholars at the University of Chicago. I have an older brother, Raphael, who's a lawyer, and a sister, Hester, who's a barrister. I have a younger brother.”

“And what's his name?”

Castiel's eyes dropped briefly again, and his breath seemed to hitch, “His name's Inias.”

Miss Mills felt she'd asked enough questions. Family was always a tricky topic with these boys, as many resented their parents for sending them to Solomon, and held them responsible for things that had happened before they came here. Some didn't have parents at all, or not ones that they chose to associate with.

“Okay, Castiel, we'll leave it there. Have a nice evening.”

“Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Castiel came back to the dorm to find Dean leaning out of the window, staring out into the distance with a cigarette balanced between two fingers. He shut the door quietly and Dean turned around, cigarette-bearing hand hanging out the window.

“You want one?”

Castiel nodded, dumping his bag on the bed, and Dean tossed him the pack and lighter.

“Where'd you get these?”

“Got a good deal out of McLeod. Also paid off the cleaner not to tattle about the smell.”

“And the smoke alarm?” Castiel pointed at the small box on the ceiling.

“Disabled it,” Dean grinned.

Castiel snorted, lighting up and taking a long drag, feeling more at home than he had in weeks. He leant back against the wall, shutting his eyes and feeling his pulse quicken. His brain offered up the explanation that that was the effect of nicotine and of carbon monoxide being picked up by his red blood cells, prompting his heart to beat faster to compensate for the drop in oxygen, but Castiel shoved the thought aside, instead enjoying the way the smoke curled on his tongue, drifted out over his lips in wisps.

He looked over at Dean who'd turned back to the window. He looked drawn out, tense, his shoulders set and head hung slightly. Castiel has noticed the dark stains that had gathered under his eyes over the past couple of weeks, how Dean had been going to sleep after him, rising before him. He'd gone on considerably less night time walks, choosing to stay in the dorm even while Sam came in and talked to Cas.

“Are you okay, Dean?”

Dean turned, tossing his burnt out cigarette out of the window.

“What? Yeah, I'm fine,” he said with a casual air, brushing off Castiel's question, but not meeting his eyes.

“Dean,” Cas repeated more firmly.

Dean's façade fell, and it was as if shadows moved in to fill the space, clinging to the hollows in his face.

“Leave it, Cas.”

Cas watched Dean carefully as he sank down on his bed gingerly, something like pain flickering across his face as his back hit the mattress. Something was up. Castiel wasn't stupid, the signs were obvious; Dean wasn't as good at hiding them back in the dorm as he was out in front of the rest of the school. But he wasn't going to push it. Dean was adamant about keeping his privacy, and Castiel didn't blame him.

Cas finished his cigarette and moved to the window, chucking it into the bushes below.

“I have a brother.”

Dean looked up, confused. “What?”

“I have a brother. Well, I have two. And a sister. But I have a younger brother, I mean. Like Sam.” Dean nodded, and looked at him as though he expected him to keep talking, and, not knowing why exactly, he did. “His name's Inias. He's ten.”

And Dean looked like he understood. He understood what made Inias different from the rest of Castiel's family, and how that made Cas different as a result. Because Castiel wasn't like the rest of them, fighting to get out; he was fighting to get _back._ Attending all his sessions, doing all his work, it was to get back home, back to his brother, even if that meant returning to the rest of his family, too.

Perhaps he and Dean weren't as different as he thought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to popular demand, the second chapter, ahead of schedule. I'm afraid I won't be able to release the rest of it until sometime in the summer because I have so much going on right now, but I thought I might as well give you guys this much for now. Thanks for sticking with me, guys!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I got nagged and I was also bored so I'm releasing the third chapter as well because why not. Enjoy! As always, thanks to my beta [Jamie](http://impalastrade.tumblr.com) for being completely wonderful.

By the end of October, Dean had stopped coming to the group meetings. Castiel didn't ask him about his attendance, and Dean didn't say anything on the matter. Cas somehow ended up in a group of three for ‘sharing time’ with Harry Spangler and Ed Zeddmore, something that Dean found hilarious but Cas missed the humour of, having spent too many forty-five minute sessions listening to the two Juniors prattle on about ghosts and restless spirits and whether or not Solomon had its very own poltergeist. Castiel absently wondered how they'd ended up in behavioural modification rather than an asylum, but kept his thoughts to himself.

For the most part, he was ignored by anyone who wasn't Victor, Dean, or Sam. He got on amicably with Sam's friend Cole, one of the youngest boys at Solomon, who was there for having a violent streak, but to Castiel just seemed like a lively fourteen year old who should be at a proper high school, playing sports and meeting girls. Perhaps Cole just reminded him of Inias.

Things had changed slightly between him and Dean since his revelation a couple of weeks back. They still didn't talk much – there wasn't much to say when the only thing they had in common was the school, and neither was willing to disclose their reasons for being there. However they fell into a comfortable understanding through the knowledge that on some level, they were both there for very similar reasons and that was enough. Sometimes in the evenings, when they were both lounging on their beds, either occupied with the smoke drifting in and out of their lungs or with their own thoughts, Dean would break the silence with a question about what drugs Castiel had tried, what kinds of effects they had, what kind of things he had done while on them, and sometimes Cas would chuckle and tell him in a low voice that didn't interrupt the quiet of the night, and watch as the corners of Dean's mouth quirked up in amusement at his words. Other times he would simply shake his head, and Dean would understand that on that day, Castiel needed thoughts of Pontiac as far away as possible.

Slowly, Dean told Cas things in return.

“My mom died when I was four.”

Castiel looked up, head cocked to the side, waiting to see if he would continue.

“Our house in Lawrence burnt down. Dad tried to get her out but-” he paused, rubbing at his forehead tiredly, “Anyway, so Dad got me to get Sammy outside. We got out okay. But yeah, no house, no mom.”

Castiel didn't say anything, merely watched Dean carefully: the way his brows pressed together slightly at memories that seemed to be running through his mind, the way he ran one hand through his hair almost forcefully, as if trying to pull it out.

“Sam doesn't remember her really. He remembers the fire, the heat, but that's about it. Once the house was gone, Dad got the military job and never looked back. After that it was just endless sitters while he worked.”

Cas found himself nodding, knowing exactly what it felt like not having your parents around when you needed them most.

They sank back into silence, neither of them requiring the other to say anything more.

* * *

There was a music room in Solomon. In it was a drum kit, a couple of battered acoustic guitars, and in one corner, an old upright piano. The room was largely unused, and kept locked, which was why Castiel was surprised when he tested the door out of curiosity as he went on his nightly stroll around the school and it swung open with ease. Looking around, he slipped into the room, shutting the door behind him softly.

The piano was worn and nicked in several places, edges of the keys chipped and fractured; nothing like the polished baby grand back home which his father kept in pristine, perfect condition. Castiel had always thought that that was no way to keep an instrument. This one had character, told a story.

His hands hovered experimentally over the keys, brushing over them as he began to ghost his fingers across the flowing broken chords of Rachmaninov's 2nd Piano Concerto in C Minor, his foot lifting over the pedal, aching for his hands to lower, to let the music flow out of the piano.

There was a creak as the door was opened and Cas stopped suddenly, turning to look at the intruder.

“Hey,” Dean greeted him quietly. “I'd wondered where you'd wandered off to.”

Castiel turned back to the piano, letting his fingers rest on the worn ivory.

“You play?” Dean asked, coming to stand beside him.

“I used to.”

“Well?”

“Well enough.”

“Which by your standards means you were practically Mozart.”

Castiel snorted, shaking his head.

Dean moved away, wandering around the edge of the room, hands running over the unused instruments, wiping away layers of gathered dust.

“Did you ever learn an instrument?” Castiel asked, figuring that this would be an acceptable subject to broach.

Dean shook his head, “Nope. We were never in one town long enough for having a teacher to be worthwhile. Plus, I figure playing music isn't really my thing. Practically tone-deaf. You should hear Sammy complain about my singing.”

“I have,” Cas smiled softly.

Dean laughed. “Yeah, well, I can always rely on my little brother to go spreading 'round my faults to everyone, can't I?’

“Seems that way.”

Despite his jovial manner, there was something beneath the surface that made Dean seem exhausted, worn out. He moved with a certain degree of stiffness, never making movements too quickly. Cas wasn't stupid. He'd seen that kind of behaviour before, knew what it meant. That, combined with the bruise he could have sworn he'd seen looped around Dean's wrist a few weeks previously, made it blindingly obvious.

“Dean.”

Dean's head snapped round sharply, finding Cas stood just behind him, and he swore, stumbling back. Castiel caught the flash of pain across his features as he moved too quickly.

“Jesus, Cas, give a guy some warning would you?”

“My apologies. What happened?”

“You snuck up on me, that's what happened. Christ.”

“I didn't mean that, Dean. I mean the fact that you're obviously in pain.” Dean looked up in alarm.

“What?”

“I'm not an idiot, Dean. You may be able to hide them under your shirts but I'm certain that right now your torso at least is covered in bad bruising. So I repeat, what happened?”

“I fell down the stairs,” Dean said slowly, pointedly, and Castiel knew that meant he wasn't going to reveal the official source of the injuries. He fixed him with a scrutinising glare. “Dean-”

“Goddamnit, just leave it would you, Cas?”

Cas hesitated for a moment as Dean stared him down, jaw set. “Fine.”

“Fine.”

The door banged shut behind Dean as he left, and Cas didn't return to the dorm until he was sure that Dean would be asleep.

* * *

 

Alistair was getting inventive. Dean was venturing out of his dorm less and less often during their free hours, not attending the group sessions, and disappearing straight after lessons. One morning, however, before sunrise, Alistair caught him just as he was entering the shower room. He didn't have time to think before he was shoved into the wall, both arms held behind him in a full Nelson, face pressed against the perpetually damp wall of the bathroom.

“Morning Dean!” a voice sang in his ear, “Early riser like myself, are we? You know, I really admire that in a person. Says a lot about their character, don't you think? The morning's such a valuable timeframe for getting things done.”

“Oh for fuck's sake, Alistair,” he spat, groaning slightly as his bruised ribs were compressed. “Haunting bathrooms now? Who are you, Moaning Myrtle?”

“Well I had to Dean, you weren't playing nicely.”

“I'm sorry, I hadn't realised that we were playing at all. I just got the impression that you really enjoyed your attempts to give me internal bleeding, and seeing as I wasn't finding them as much fun, I thought if we didn't see each other for a while you might get the idea that I'm really not that into you or your courting methods,” he grunted in response, pushing back against Alistair's grip and feeling the burn in his shoulders as the joints were stretched.

Alistair tutted, shoving him back, “You know, Dean, I think I'm finally starting to understand the bigger picture in all this and boy, is it fascinating. Daddy dies in a car crash with both you and Sammy inside, and while Sam is relatively okay, father and big brother both end up in hospital. Then father passes away leaving Dean-o and Sammy with no next of kin, yes? Both parents only children, mother's parents dead before you were born, and Papa Winchester's long dead too, who's going to look after the little orphan boys, hmm? There were a couple of options, I discovered, old friends of your daddy's, and honestly it's such a _shame_ you didn't go to old Bobby Singer. He sounds like such a nice man. It really is a pity your daddy had that fight with him and ended up putting a different name down for who you should go to should anything happen to him. Tell me Dean, what was he like? You know,-”

Dean's blood ran cold, “Don't you _dare_ say it.”

Alistair's breath brushed his ear, and just as Dean heard the shape of the first syllable being formed in his mouth, he kicked back, foot colliding with Alistair's shin. Alistair's grip on the damp floor skidded, leg disappearing from beneath him, and his knee hit the tiles with a sharp _crack_ , his grip on Dean's wrists vanishing. Dean spun around and swung his leg up, kneeing Alistair in the jaw hard enough to send him sprawling backwards. He went for a kick in the ribs but Alistair caught him by the ankle, pulling him off balance and sending him crashing to the floor.

They fought in a tangle of limbs and stray punches, Dean eventually getting back on his feet after kicking the larger boy off him forcefully. Alistair scrambled to his feet too, though not fast enough, before Dean was pushing him back, his back hitting the wall dividing two of the shower cubicles.

“You may have a knack for finding out about things that are none of your business, Bechtel, but just because you know the facts doesn't mean you understand them,” Dean hissed, face inches from Alistair's, shoulders rising and falling rapidly as he panted.

Alistair grabbed Dean by the front of his shirt and swung him around, throwing him through the shower curtain with such force that he skidded on the damp tiles, falling backwards into the shower dial, the water turning on with a hiss. Dean slid to the floor, winded, and spat out a mouthful of blood from where he'd bitten his tongue. It spiralled red down the drain as Alistair towered over him, reaching down and grabbing him by the throat, dragging him to his feet as the water filled his eyes, his mouth as he struggled to breathe.

Suddenly the grip let off and Dean dropped to the floor like a stone, spluttering against the choke and the scalding water. Looking up he saw Victor pinning Alistair to the opposite wall. He was shorter but far burlier than Bechtel, and with Dean now back on his feet, Alistair was looking slightly less confident.

“Bechtel, none of us buy this 'probation for good behaviour' bullshit, but last time I checked I'm sure this kind of thing doesn't count, so I advise you get out of here before you find your ass in a van on its way back to the detention centre.”

Alistair's face split into a smirk, looking over Victor's shoulder at Dean, “As you say, Henricksen. See you, Dean-o!”

As soon as he'd left, Victor rounded on him, “Are you fucking _retarded_? How long has this been going on for?”

Dean rubbed tiredly at his face and spat another gob of red-streaked saliva into the drain. “I don't know, a few weeks?”

“Christ,” Victor swore. Suddenly he got a strange look on his face and his hand shot out, grabbing the hem of Dean's t-shirt and yanking it up.

“Hey, what do you think you're playing at?” Dean yelped, indignant.

“Fuck. _Fuck_. Really, Winchester?”

Dean looked up, catching sight of his reflection in the mirror above the sink. His stomach and ribs were mottled with bruises in all shades of purple, green, yellow, black. He glanced away.

“Why the fuck would you let him do that, Dean?” Victor demanded, letting go of his soaked shirt.

“Because I don't exactly have much of a choice.”

“What's he threatening you with?”

“He's somehow managed to find stuff out about what happened.”

Victor's expression hardened, “Look, Dean, I know you're playing your cards close to your chest on this, but why does it matter so much if Alistair finds out? I mean, if the authorities know why you're here and you're still here rather than at Juvenile, then surely what you did can't be that bad?”

Dean shook his head, “It's not people here finding out that's the problem. It's Sam.”

“You mean he doesn't know?” Victor asked incredulously.

“I'm sure he knows I haven't been telling him the whole truth by now, but no, he doesn't.”

“What the hell did you tell him in the first place as to why you're here too then?”

“The same thing I tell everyone here. He's here so I am too. Told him I talked to the social worker.”

“And he hasn't asked since?”

“I've made it clear that he shouldn't.”

“Christ, Dean.”

“Don't, Victor. Just- don't say anything to him. Or to Cas. Please.”

“Does Cas know anything?”

“He suspects something's up. But he hasn't pushed anything. He knows my boundaries, I know his. He's an okay guy.”

Victor nodded, “Yeah, he seems it.”

* * *

 

_The kid beamed as he spotted his big brother at the school gates, racing past all the other children to get to him, throwing his arms around his waist._

_Castiel grinned down at the small boy, ruffling his hair fondly. “Good day at school?”_

_Inias nodded into his stomach before detaching himself, “This is better though. Are we getting ice-cream today?”_

_“I don't see why not, but only if you tell me everything you learned today, okay?”_

_The younger boy chatted happily about the book they were reading in English, how well he did on his Math test, the frogspawn they were watching in Science, and Castiel listened intently, not wanting to miss a word. They got ice cream and sat in the park on the hill by their house, and Castiel tried to quiet the nerves rioting in his stomach._

_“Are you alright, Cassy?” his brother asked, looking round at him where he was sat, worrying at the end of his tie._

_“What? Ah, yes,” he stumbled in response, looking into his little brother's concerned eyes, “I’ve just got something I need to tell Mom and Dad tonight.”_

_“Are you going to tell me too?”_

_“Yes. I'll tell everyone at dinner, I promise.”_

_“Okay,” Inias beamed, and went back to his ice cream. Castiel wished he could go back to the days when everything seemed so much less important. He wanted to be carefree again._

_The next time he turned up at the elementary school to pick up his brother, Hester was there before him. She looked at him coldly, steering Inias out of the playground, not allowing him to look round at where Castiel stood, feeling as if the rest of the world was collapsing around him as he watched his last hope, his last beacon, be dragged away by his sister._

* * *

 

It was the screaming that woke Dean, the yells and gasps and pleads that he had become all too familiar with and still woke him with his heart in his throat, choking him, panic coursing through every passage in his body. He looked around wildly, blood thundering, breath stuttering before his eyes landed on Castiel, fast asleep in the next bed, comforter pulled tight over his shoulders. He froze, straining to hear past the thudding in his eardrums. The building was silent, only interrupted by Cas' deep breathing.

Slowly, he lowered himself back down onto the pillow, swallowing thickly and waiting for his pulse to return to a normal pace. The echoes of the memories quieted, the sickening thuds and the cries and the-

He turned, pressing his face into the pillow, wrapping the comforter around him and humming Metallica softly under his breath until the nausea and fear had settled and sleep claimed him again.

* * *

 

The cold bit at his fingertips and ears and he fisted his hands at his sides, watching the way his breath misted before him with interest. Dean was with Sam and Victor, but Cas didn't feel much like socialising that night. He stood on the field, gazing up at the inky blue sky, the stars reminding him of when he would build forts with Inias, light shining through pin-pricks in the blankets over their heads, Inias listening to his stories with fascination.

Castiel trod carefully across the field, the frost crackling slightly beneath his feet. It was during moments like these, when there wasn't another person in sight and the world was still save for the wind in the trees, that Castiel liked to imagine that suddenly, in the blink of an eye, everyone else in the world had ceased to exist, winked out of reality, leaving Castiel alone as the last person on earth. The thought was strangely peaceful to him, a familiar comfort. He'd think about all the things he would do with no one to stop him. He could wander through ghost towns, through shops and houses as he wished. He wondered what he could learn about the occupants merely from the furniture they kept, the books on their shelves. There would be no one else in the world to be concerned about, to care about, and caring tired Cas.

Sometimes he wondered how soon he would get lonely and crave the company of someone else to discuss the amazing works of literature he would have unlimited access to with, to figure out the meaning of live with, but in the end he would always find himself imagining himself walking through this empty, silent world, alone, and finally at peace, and the world in his head would meld with the world outside, and he wouldn't be able to remember whether it was fact or fiction, and for a moment would find himself suspended in this apocalyptical, uninhabited world, true until proven otherwise.

Invariably, this would be the moment when a voice called out in the dark, or headlamps flashed in the distance, and seven billion people would continue to exist, the world would continue to turn, and Castiel would continue to care.


End file.
